


Of Tears and Trees

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Hobbits, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-18 09:43:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9378986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: His departure from the Shire is not the first time Frodo Baggins encounters the Old Forest, and his memories are not pleasant.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not now, nor have I ever owned the characters or settings of The Lord of The Rings. The main events of this story also belong to LOTR. If I were that clever I wouldn’t be writing fanfic. I have woven around them, hopefully not doing too much harm to JRR Tolkien, his estate and anyone else who is allowed to make money out of the whole thing.

_Frodo sat for a while in thought. “I have made up my mind,” he said finally. “I am starting tomorrow, as soon as it is light. But I am not going by road: it would be safer to wait here than that. If I go through the North-gate my departure from Buckland will be known at once, instead of being secret for several days at least, as it might be. And what is more, the Bridge and the East Road near the borders will certainly be watched. Whether a Rider gets into Buckland or not. We don’t know how many there are; but there are at least two, and possible more. The only thing to do is to go off in a quite unexpected direction.”_

_But that can only mean going into the Old Forest!” said Fredegar horrified. “You can’t be thinking of doing that. It is quiet as dangerous as Black Riders.”_  
“Not quite,” said Merry. “It sounds very desperate, but I believe Frodo is right. It is the only way of getting off without being followed at once. With luck we might get a considerable start.”  
“But you won’t have any luck in the Old Forest,” objected Fredegar. “No one ever has any luck in there. You’ll get lost. People don’t go in there.”  
“Oh yes they do!” said Merry. “The Brandybucks go in – occasionally when the fit takes them. We have a private entrance. Frodo went in once, long ago. I have been in several times: usually in daylight, of course, when the trees are sleepy and fairly quiet.” 

_A Conspiracy Unmasked - The Fellowship of the Ring – J R R Tolkien_

Later that night Frodo hunched down amongst his blankets, trying to escape the painful images unfolding, once more, before his minds eye. He had spent many years burying them deep but mention of the forest and a chance word from Merry had brought them rushing back to the surface. He struggled to push aside the memories that threatened to drown him and fervently wished that he had never confided in his friend, for the emotions of his past now threatened to overpower him.

-0- 

 

The Brandywine churned before him, swift and brown, its muddy waters, swelled by the spring rain, tumbling over and over. He tried to let its rhythm mesmerise him but his eyes kept straying to the scene on the bank. Between the legs of a large group of his relations he could see the sodden, weed strewn, yellow fabric of Mamas’ favourite dress. If he looked very hard he fancied he could see one foot peeping out from beneath its muddied hem. He could not now see but knew that Papa lay next to her on the bank.

When he first arrived he tried to reach them, but Uncle Saradoc grabbed him, scooping him off the ground and holding him close until he stopped struggling. Frodo thought that, if he could just reach his parents, his cries would awaken them. They would know his pain and return to him. But Saradoc was strong and, even though Frodo beat his fists against his captors’ chest, screaming and pleading to be let go, he was not released. When his anger subsided Saradoc set him down, but still held the twelve year olds’ shoulders firmly. Frodo asked him, just once, if he could go to them now but Saradoc shook his head, “Remember them as you last saw them, Frodo.”

As he last saw them? Papa had been sitting in the parlour, his cheerful face bathed in the red glow of the fire in the hearth. Frodo leaned his head against his shoulder as he fought to master the last sobs. 

“There now, my lad. The knee is bandaged and it doesn’t hurt that much any more, now does it?” 

“No, Papa.”

“Good lad. Grown hobbits don’t cry.” Frodo wrapped his hands around Papa’s neck in a brief hug, then slipped from his knee and took Mamas’ hand. Mama led him to his bedroom and helped him undress, hanging his jacket on the hook behind the door and tucking him into bed. He remembered the smell of lavender as she bent to place a soft kiss on his forehead. 

“Sleep tight, my little sparrow.”

“Goodnight, Mama.” He rolled on to his side and closed his eyes, drifting quickly into untroubled sleep.

The next morning he was wakened by a loud commotion. Pulling on trousers and shirt he rushed into the hallway to see what the matter was. Asphodel was talking to her husband at the entrance to their rooms. 

“Has anyone told Frodo, yet?” 

Rufus shook his head. “I looked in a minute ago and he was still asleep. He will have time enough to deal with this. Let’s give him a little longer before he has to face their deaths.” 

Death. Whose death? And where was Mama? Mama always came and drew the curtains to wake him in the morning. For a moment, all sound stopped but for his own heartbeat, and that filled his ears with a loud thunder that grew faster and faster. Frodo started to run, following the general exodus of hobbits spilling out of the door and leading down to the river bank. He caught only a glimpse of Mama and Papa before Uncle Saradoc restrained him. He watched, now dry eyed, as his parents bodies were wrapped in blankets and then spirited away by older hobbits, into the depths of Brandy Hall.

Saradoc caught his hand and lead him, now unresisting, along the same path. The little hobbit felt very cold and his legs would not seem to hold his weight. Before they got half way back to the hall Saradoc had to pick him up and carry him, the child’s head resting beneath his chin and the small body trembling in his arms. Esmeralda met them in the hallway, and shepherded them into the rooms she and Saradoc shared where Frodo allowed himself to be undressed and put back to bed. The doctor was waiting for him and gave the shocked hobbit something bitter to drink that made him sink into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Frodo awoke in a strange bed. Daylight was prying its way through chinks in the curtains but the room was otherwise dark. For a moment he could not understand what had happened, then memory came flooding in and he swallowed back the tears that threatened to overwhelm him. 

“Hello, sleepyhead. How are you feeling now?” He rolled over and found Aunt Esmeralda sitting in a chair at the bedside. 

“I’m alright, thank you, Aunt Esme.” He replied, in a small voice. She frowned, pity filling here eyes, and he pulled away from the hand that reached to brush his hair off his forehead. 

“Alright, sweetie. Would you like something to eat? It’s tea time and you haven’t eaten yet, today.”

“No, thank you, Aunt,” he said, keeping his face averted, frightened that if he met her concerned gaze he would cry. When he skinned his knee Papa had told him that grown hobbits did not cry. 

“You should eat, Frodo. Won’t you try a sandwich or some soup?”

“I’m not hungry, Aunt Esme.” He just wanted to be left alone, to go back to sleep and shut out the world. “I’m tired.”

“You go back to sleep if you want to, sweetheart. I’ll look in on you later.” He listened to the rustle of her wide skirts as she left, the door shutting softly behind her. Frodo closed his eyes and willed himself back to sleep.

Uncle Saradoc called in on him later but Frodo was left to sleep the day and night away. When the next morning came, however, his uncle made him get up, saying that it was not healthy for a young hobbit to lie in bed too long. Aunt Esmeralda insisted that he eat breakfast and would not release him from the kitchen table until he had eaten at least one slice of toast and a glass of milk. Once allowed to leave, however, he moved to sit in the parlour window seat. There he spent most of that day watching rain drops slide down the window panes, his mind idly trying to make patterns of their trails.

For Frodo the world become a distant place that he was no longer a part of. It went on around him but did not impinge on his consciousness unless he was forced to interact with it. He ate, although his Aunt declared it was never sufficient or often enough, and he was obliged to answer questions from grown ups but all the other children his own age began to avoid him for he simply ignored them. Aunt Esmeralda called in the doctor when she saw her nephew growing thinner and paler, the dark circles under his eyes testimony to the fact that he was not sleeping. All became reconciled to the fact that until he let go the iron control over his emotions there was nothing that could be done. Everyone hoped that the funeral would open the floodgates of his grief.


	2. Chapter 2

On the day of the funeral Brandy Hall was full to bursting with relatives from far and wide and the Big Hall murmured with the subdued chatter of many hobbits. Frodo found a dark corner and tried to remain unnoticed but, of course, he could not. Hobbits, many of whom he had never met before, kept coming over to offer their condolences. All held pity in their eyes for the little orphan and many reached to ruffle his dark curls. He cringed away at their touch and they tutted and muttered about “the poor little dear”, then returned to their conversations.

The funeral itself was a simple affair. There was some debate on whether Frodo should attend, Aunt Esmeralda saying that she thought it cruel to put such a young child through it, but she was overruled. The head of the clan, Rorimac, had consulted the doctor and it was decided that seeing his parents laid to rest might finally release the tight-lipped orphan. Saradoc and Esmeralda stood close by, ready to spirit him away if he collapsed but he remained blank faced and dry eyed; the only sign of any emotion the slow clenching and unclenching of his fists. 

Frodo simply watched the canvas wrapped shapes lowered into the ground, unable to make the connection between them and the parents he loved. When everyone returned to the Big Hall for the funeral tea Frodo reclaimed his dark corner and it was there that Bilbo discovered him, some hours later.

Many of the guests had left and the noise in the hall was subsiding. Frodo sat with his arms wrapped around his knees, studying the floor at his feet. He hoped that by making himself as small as possible he would be overlooked and had achieved some measure of success with the tactic. Suddenly an adult sized pair of feet stepped into his field of vision. He waited for the usual sugared words and the touch on his head but there was no ruffling of curls and no words were spoken. The little hobbit sighed and looked up into a pair of sharp grey eyes in a plain round face. 

“This is no place for you, lad. You look quite worn out. Come along with your Uncle Bilbo.” Uncle Bilbo had been visiting Mama and Papa once or twice a year for as long as Frodo could remember. He always brought some little gift with him and sometimes he and Papa would take him for long walks. Frodo searched for and found his aunts’ face nearby. She nodded approval and Frodo reached up the take the proffered hand, grateful for any chance to be released.

Bilbo led him back to his aunt and uncles’ quiet parlour and set him in a large, comfortable armchair by the fire. “I don’t suppose you’ve eaten, have you?”

“I’m not very hungry, Uncle Bilbo.” 

Feeling that his heart was about to break, the older hobbit sat down at the other side of the fire and studied the thin, pale faced child before him. “No. I don’t suppose you are. But, hungry or not, you should eat and I’m a little peckish myself. You wait here and I’ll go and see what I can find. You can share with me.” He returned a little later with a tray, which he set on the small table between them.

Over the course of the next hour Bilbo kept up a quiet, steady monologue about the comings and goings of Hobbiton, handing his nephew sandwiches and cakes and carefully reminding him to, “Just have another bite” every now and again. By the end of the hour Frodo had eaten more than he had for many a day and was relaxing into the large, overstuffed, fireside chair, his feet curled under him and his head laid against its padded back. 

Bilbo watched, shrewdly, as the lads eyelids began to droop. The doctor had left some sleeping powders for the child that morning but Esmeralda was reluctant to resort to them on a regular basis, so when Bilbo offered to try and get the lad to sleep she had readily acquiesced. For a little while longer, Bilbo kept up his monologue, deliberately allowing his voice to drone and lull his weary little nephew. When Frodo finally slept Bilbo and Esmeralda put him to bed. Sleeping through to the morning, the little hobbit awoke in time to see Bilbo off on his pony, back to Hobbiton, with a promise to return for regular visits.

Although Frodo started to regain his appetite and sleep a little more regularly after that, he was still a silent and solitary soul; preferring the company of books and long walks to the company of his many rowdy cousins. Esmeralda continued to worry about the wall he had raised about his emotions, frightened that if the dam did not break soon he would become very ill. Getting her nephew to even talk about Primula and Drogo, however, was impossible. He deliberately changed the subject, when he bothered to reply at all. So she watched and waited, hoping that she would be there when he finally succumbed. Frodo, for his part, continued to battle the roiling emotions within, determined not to let his Papa down because, “Grown hobbits don’t cry.”


	3. Chapter 3

Books and long walks were his only distraction and Aunt Esmeralda and Uncle Saradoc humoured him, ignoring his cousins loud complaints when Frodo was excused many of the chores handed out to the younger hobbits. So absorbed in his pain was Frodo that he did not even notice the hard glares he was getting from his peers. The young hobbit would beg a sandwich and an apple from his aunt and then pull on his pack and head off down the road. A newly developed aversion to the river usually forced him to turn left out of the main door of Brandy Hall which meant that he most often headed towards Crickhollow and the farm lands beyond. He usually stopped to eat at the little village and then looped back home via the fields before dark.

On one particular day, however, he was not paying particular attention to his route. Frodo had slept badly the night before, his dreams populated by images of the brown and tumultuous Brandywine river. He was startled when he found himself confronted with the high hedge around the Old Forest, not realising that he had travelled that far. Rather than turn straight back, Frodo decided to follow the hedge for a little way and then walk back in a loop to Crickhollow across the fields. He had not travelled far when he came across a deep cutting, set in a hollow. Its brick lined sides dived down under the hedge, forming a dark tunnel. Some spark of curiosity surfaced and he jumped down into the damp interior. At the far end a large, iron barred, gate stood slightly ajar and Frodo slipped through to the forest beyond.

It was a bright summer day outside and the darkness of the forest should have been cool but the trees seemed to trap the suns heat, holding it close and refusing to let it dissipate. Within only a few yards of the gate Frodo doffed his jacket and stuffed it into the top of his pack. The area just behind the hedge had been cleared of trees many years ago. Brambles had tried to cover most of the exposed ground but there was evidence that someone had recently been chopping them back. Beyond that the trees huddled close, except for one clear and open path before him. 

Frodo’s Tookish side came to the fore and he set off, intending to venture only a little way into the gloom, aware that it was easy to get lost with no landmark to guide him and intending to keep checking behind him for the gate. He had travelled for only a few minutes when, on turning to check his bearings, he found that the gate was no longer visible and the way back was barred by many thick trunked trees. Assuming that he had somehow got turned around he searched all about him for a sign of the exit and path and grew alarmed when he found none.

The little explorer stood still and began to survey his surroundings more closely, all the winter fireside tales about the Old Forest rising to the surface of his mind. Most of the trees were, indeed, ancient; their twisted trunks cloaked in moss and lichen and their branches draped and shrouded in strange shaggy growths. It seemed to Frodo that they were leaning in towards him and he began to feel uneasy, as though unfriendly eyes were watching. No birds sang, the only sounds being the drip of water and the creak and tap of branches above him. His imagination began to see angry gnarled faces in the tortured shapes of their bark and hear whispers in the rustle of leaves.

Frodo swallowed down his panic and turned back in the direction he believed the hedge to be. Tree trunks were densely set and the air between grew stifling. Thick, rope like roots seemed to clutch at his feet, threatening to trip him with every step, and branches dipped low to snag in his hair and clothes, almost pulling his pack from his shoulders and ripping his shirt. Feeling more and more desperate and beginning to gasp for air, he pushed on.

Suddenly, from high above, came a loud crack accompanied by a shower of leaves and several more crashing noises. Frodo glanced up in horror, just in time to see a large branch come hurtling down through the lower canopy. He tried to jump out of the way but his right ankle was caught in something and he had just time to throw up his arms to protect his head when the huge limb struck him. There was a sharp pain in his right forearm, along with a sickening cracking sound and then the missile pushed on down to strike his head and he knew no more.

Frodo’s next awareness was of a loud pounding in his head. He tried to open his eyes but screwed them shut again as the brightness they admitted increased the throbbing. His right ankle felt stiff and when he tried to move his right arm he screamed, just before he lost consciousness again. The next time he came to he was more careful and he laid still, trying to gather his wits.

Once more opening his eyes, he found that it was now dusk. He was laying on his back in the now rapidly cooling forest; the branch that had hit him lying on the ground at his side. His head ached abominably and he did not dare to move either his ankle or the right arm that was lay across his chest. He could feel a sticky wetness there. Trying to raise his head, to assess the damage, increased the intensity of the various aches and pains and he thought better it, laying back down in the gathering gloom and cold. He did not have the energy to shout and doubted there was anyone around to hear him if he did. He felt cold and weak and it would be so easy to just go to sleep and not wake up.


	4. Chapter 4

Saradoc and Merimac were a little surprised when they returned from their patrol and found the gate standing wide open. Brandy Hall sent regular patrols to the forest side of the hedge to ensure that the trees were not crowding too close. The tale of the year they had moved in and tried to lean over the hedge was still remembered by many and no chances were taken. Merimac was ever nervous and insisted on leaving the gate slightly ajar, rather than locking it, so that they could make a quick exit, but both hobbits were quite sure that they had not left it this far open. For a few minutes they stood, debating whether to simply leave or to explore. In the end Saradoc won over his more timid companion and they decided to check that no young hobbit had wondered in by mistake. Used to the tricks played by the trees, they tied one end of a long rope to the gate and carried the other end with them. It was fortunate that they found Frodo before they ran out of rope.

It was almost full dark when they spied the little shivering form on the floor, in a particularly dense coppice of trees. He lay on his back, eyes closed. Saradoc gasped when he saw the child’s right arm, where it lay across his chest. Amidst the blood he could see the white end of a protruding bone. There was a large cut on Frodo’s head, just above the hairline on the right side and his right ankle was swollen and blackening with bruises. Merimac took off his jacket and tucked it around the trembling child while Saradoc called his nephew’s name softly and stroked the sensitive skin below his eyes in an attempt to get some response. After a few moments Frodo’s eyes did flutter open, relief visible when he found himself looking up into a familiar face.

Merimac had been surveying the surrounding trees worriedly. “We need to get out of here soon. The trees are angry and we shouldn’t be here after dark.” 

Saradoc studied his nephew again. “I can see that you’ve hurt your head, arm and ankle, lad. But do you hurt anywhere else?” 

“I don’t think so, Uncle,” Frodo replied through chattering teeth. Saradoc slipped off his belt and used it to strap the child’s shattered arm to his chest then gently tried to lift him. Frodo cried out once, then his eyes rolled back in his head and he lay silent. Thankful that at least the child would feel no more pain for the moment the two older hobbits returned to the gate, Merimac pausing to lock it securely after them as they left.

Too worried for the boy’s health to risk carrying him all the way back to Brandy Hall (a journey of several hours) they turned left and took the lane to Tom Fallows farm. Frodo needed a warm bed and a doctor, quickly. Tom was locking the henhouse door for the night when they arrived. One look at Frodo and the older hobbits faces told him all he needed to know and he ushered them in to the house. His oldest son, Bill, was turned out of his room and despatched on the old pony, to fetch the doctor and Mrs Fallows helped Saradas put the injured child to bed. After a quick mug of tea, Merimac departed for Brandy Hall.

Daisy Fallows had finished bandaging Frodo’s head and was starting to clean up his arm when her patient awoke. Warm blankets and hot water bottles had stopped his shaking but he was still pale and cold. Beneath the covers his foot was supported on two pillows but the little hobbit was still in a good deal of pain. He winced as Mrs Fallows dabbed lightly at his arm but no tears fell. When she had cleaned the wound as best she could, Daisy laid clean soft cloths around it and left it for the doctor to finish. She knew she had not the skill to deal with a break as bad as that.

It was nearly two hours later that Dr Bolger arrived, by which time everyone was growing rather worried about the child. Frodo was biting his lip against the pain and his temperature was rising, his cheeks bright red spots in an otherwise ashen face. The doctor examined him gently, complementing Daisy on the work she had done already but he pursed his lips when he drew aside the dressings on his patient’s arm. 

Re-covering it he rummaged in his bag for a moment before producing a small brown bottle and asking Mrs Fallows for a teaspoon. She returned, slipping a hand beneath Frodo’s pillow and raising the little one’s head just enough for him to swallow the medicine that the doctor spooned between his pale lips. Frodo grimaced at the taste but swallowed it and the three spoonfuls that followed. Dr Bolger patted his shoulder, smiled and then turned to draw Saradoc aside. Daisy remained at the bedside, tenderly wiping the child’s face with a cool damp cloth.

“He’s a brave lad. I’ve known grown hobbits make more fuss with lesser injuries than these.” 

Saradas smiled ruefully. “Sometimes I wish that he were a little less brave. He worries me.” 

The doctor frowned. “I was attending a birth on the day of the funeral. How was he?” 

“No change.”

Dr Bolger squeezed his arm. “Give him time. For now, we have more pressing problems. Of the two bones in his lower arm I think one is only cracked but the other is broken and the end of the bone has come through the skin. It looks like a clean break (no splinters that I can see), and from the amount of bleeding I don’t think he has torn any of the major blood vessels but I’m going to have to set it and there is a danger of mortification in the bone. If that happens you should prepare yourself because I may need to take the arm.” 

Saradoc turned to watch his nephew, who seemed to be growing very sleepy. “So much pain in such a short life. It doesn’t seem fair.”

“I agree. He does seem to be having more than his fair share of troubles. The medicine I gave him will put him into a reasonably deep sleep but there will be a lot of pain when I set the bone. You will need to hold him still while I work.” 

Saradoc swallowed in a suddenly dry throat at the thought of being party to causing his nephew even further distress, even if it was for his own good.

Dr Bolger returned to the bed, where Frodo’s eyes had now closed and his breathing slowed. Touching fingers to the pulse point in the lad’s neck he judged him as deeply asleep as possible and signalled to Saradoc. The uncle placed one hand on Frodo’s right arm, just above the break, and the other on his chest, while Daisy Fallows stood by with splints and bandages. The doctor gripped Frodo’s arm below the break and began to pull. Saradoc’s stomach turned as he watched the end of the bone slide back beneath the skin but then he had no time to watch because Frodo began to whimper and struggle. When next he had opportunity to glance down the arm was bandaged and immobilised between two wooden splints.

Although Frodo no longer struggled he was becoming restless and a film of perspiration formed on his face and neck. Mrs Fallows brought a fresh bowl of cold water and more cloths and began to bathe his face again, leaving a folded cloth on his forehead when she had finished. 

Dr Bolger left his instructions. “I’ll return tomorrow morning. Give him two spoons of the medicine every four hours and try to get some fluids down him if you can. Water, camomile tea or apple juice would be best. The fever will grow worse if he doesn’t take in any liquids. Change the bandage on his head in the morning and put some of this salve on it. He handed a small jar of yellow ointment to Daisy. Don’t touch the arm. I’ll check that myself, tomorrow. Only time will tell if the bone is infected. The ankle will heal itself, with time and rest.” With that he left and Saradoc pulled a chair up to the bedside to wait. He wished Esmeralda were with him. She was so much better at tending sick hobbits and he felt in need of her comfort himself.


	5. Chapter 5

Frodo remembered little of the next two days but they would remain imprinted on Saradocs’ memory forever. His little nephews’ fever grew but, fortunately, the doctor declared the bone to be free from mortification. Saradoc and Mrs Fallows tended the child between them, dosing him with medicine that kept him very sleepy and coaxing him to drink when he roused. At about midnight on the second day the fever broke and Frodo began to sleep more peacefully. When Dr Bolger called in the morning he found the little hobbit much improved and declared that they could stop the medicine, except for two spoonfuls at night to help him sleep.

Frodo awoke just before noon, feeling limp and totally drained, his limbs leaden and unresponsive. Uncle Saradoc was asleep in a chair at his bedside. It was then that Frodo noticed that it was not his bedside, nor was it his own little room at Brandy Hall. He tried to flex his right ankle and was surprised to find it stiff but no longer so painful. The small movement made the bedclothes rustle, however, and Uncle Saradoc awoke with a start. He smiled when he saw Frodo’s unclouded blue eyes looking up at him. 

“Hello Frodo. How long have you been awake?”

Frodo tried to speak and had to clear his throat before any sound issued. “Not long, Uncle.” 

“How about something to drink? Your throat must be dry.” 

“Yes, please.” Saradas raised his nephews head and put a cup to his lips, nodding with approval as his charge drank most of the cold, honey rich, camomile tea before pulling away. 

“Good lad. Do you think you could manage some broth? Mrs Fallows has some warming and you haven’t eaten for a while. You need to build up your strength.”

The little hobbit thought for a moment and nodded, too weary to speak again. 

Saradoc beamed. “Good lad. You just rest here quietly and I’ll fetch it.” Frodo snuggled down further into the blankets, gasping in pain when he jostled his right arm. He really did want to cry then but he bit his lip and closed his eyes, willing the pain to subside and grateful when, gradually, it did. He wished Mama was there, her cool soft hands stroking his aching head.

His uncle returned with a lady that he introduced as Mrs Fallows. Saradoc gently raised him while she arranged pillows behind Frodo so that he was a little more upright. Very much aware that he was too weak to do it for himself, Frodo allowed Mrs Fallows to spoon him the broth. It was not over hot and it tasted light and salty, sitting gently in his stomach. The mug was only half empty, however, when he pulled back, signalling that he had enough. The extra pillows were removed so that he was lying flat again and Frodo closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.

It was dark when he woke again. Uncle Saradoc was still at his bedside, this time reading a book by the shielded light of a candle. When he saw his nephew’s head roll to look at him he put the book aside. 

“Awake again, Frodo? How are you feeling?” 

Frodo tried moving and winced. “I feel a little weak and my arm hurts but my head doesn’t ache anymore. Where are we?” 

His Uncle smiled. “Were at Tom Fallows farm. Do you remember Mrs Fallows?”

“Mmm. She came in earlier.”

“That’s right. Do you remember anything about your accident?” 

Frodo frowned in concentration, and then swallowed as he remembered the forest. “I was lost. How did you know where to find me?” 

“Your Uncle Merimac and I were working by the hedge. When we came back and found the gate open we decided to make sure no young hobbit had strayed in by accident. It’s a good job we did isn’t it?” He eyed Frodo, disapprovingly. 

“I’m sorry, Uncle. I suppose I wasn’t thinking” his nephew replied, tears gathering but not spilling. 

Saradoc was repentant immediately. The lad had paid dearly already for his curiosity. “Don’t worry, Frodo. I’m not cross with you, just relieved that you’re going to be alright.” He reached out to pat the pale child’s left hand, where it lay on the coverlet. 

“What time is it, Uncle?” 

Saradoc turned to check the clock on the mantle. “It’s eleven o’clock in the evening. I’m going to get you something to drink, and you should take your medicine.” He reached across to the bedside table and produced a small spoon and a brown glass bottle. Supporting Frodo carefully he administered two spoonful’s of medicine and helped him wash it down with most of a warm cup of camomile tea. Then he tucked his nephew in and held his hand as he watched the eyelids droop and finally close.

The sound of curtains being drawn woke Frodo. For a moment, before opening his eyes, he thought he was back in his own room at Brandy Hall and his Mama had come to waken him. Then memories of the last few weeks crowded back and he knew that it would not be Mamas’ face that he saw. Mrs Fallows was standing by his bed, smiling brightly. 

“Good morning, Master Frodo. I’ve brought you water, soap and towels. Lets get you all cleaned up before your visitors arrive and then you can try a bite of breakfast.” 

Frodo frowned. “Visitors?” 

“Yes, they sent word that there would be visitors coming with the cart from Brandy Hall. If the doctor agrees, you’re to go home today.” 

Uncle Saradoc came back then and the next half hour was spent sponging down and drying the little invalid. Frodo felt a little embarrassed that he could not wash himself but he also felt much better when they had finished, especially when he was put into one of his own nightshirts, obviously sent down from the Hall. Mrs Fallows finished by gently brushing his hair, careful of the now healing cut on his scalp.

They left him alone then while they sorted out some breakfast, leaving him propped up amongst a mound of soft pillows. Frodo closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the lowing of cows in the meadow beyond the farmyard outside his window.

“Frodo?” Someone was holding his hand and Frodo opened his eyes, aware that he must have fallen asleep. Aunt Esmeralda was sitting on the edge of his bed, her thumb rubbing gently across the back of his hand. 

“Hello, Aunt Esme.” He wanted to lurch forward and fall, sobbing into her arms but his father’s voice echoed in his mind and he swallowed hard and smiled instead. 

His aunt looked concerned. “Is your arm hurting, sweetheart?” 

“A little, but it’s not too bad.” In actual fact it hurt a lot if he tried to move it but it was tolerable if he held it still, cradled in its sling across his chest. 

“If it still hurts too much we can wait a few days. You don’t have to go back to Brandy Hall today. Farmer Fallows and his family are happy for you to stay.” 

“I can manage.” 

Her smile brightened and she patted his hand. “Guess who else has come to see you?” 

Frodo shook his head, hoping it wasn’t one of his many younger cousins. 

“Your Uncle Bilbo. When he got word that you were poorly he came all the way from Hobbiton. He travelled down with me in the cart and will be going back to the Hall with us this afternoon. He hopes to stay for a few days, until you’re feeling a bit better. Would you like to talk to him?” 

Frodo tried to push himself more upright and winced at the sudden pain in his arm.

Aunt Esmeralda rushed to help him, re-arranging the pillows. “You just rest, sweetheart. I’ll go and fetch him for you.”


	6. Chapter 6

Bilbo brought a breakfast tray with him. “Frodo, my lad. What’s all this nonsense you’ve been getting up to? You’re becoming far too curious for a gentlehobbit.”

Frodo smiled weakly. “I’m afraid I’ve made myself a nuisance to everyone, Uncle Bilbo.” He could feel the tears threatening to overwhelm him again and hurriedly looked down at the coverlet while he regained control of his quivering chin. 

“Oh, my dear boy. I didn’t mean to hurt you with my words. Goodness knows, you’re hurt enough already. Don’t you take your silly Uncle Bilbo’s comments too seriously. Sometimes I speak before I think.” 

Frodo managed to look up and smile.

“There now, that’s better, lad. Come on and eat your oatmeal while its’ still warm. Mrs Fallows has stirred some of her own honey in to it and her honey has won prizes.” 

Frodo tried to pick up the spoon but his left hand was clumsy and he seemed to be too weak to lift it. Uncle Bilbo rescued and filled it, lifting it to his nephew’s mouth.

Frodo tried to pull away. “I don’t think I’m hungry after all, Uncle.” 

Bilbo guessed the problem. “Now come on lad. There’s no shame in feeling a bit weak when you’ve been as sick as you have. I don’t mind feeding you and I won’t tell anyone. You had us very worried for a while, there.” He tried the spoon again and smiled as Frodo opened his mouth and took the oatmeal. I did taste good; smooth and slightly salty, with the lovely sweet taste of blossom scented honey.

Bilbo looked hard into his nephews face as he fed him. It was a face far too pale and when the mouth was not eating it was set in a thin line. Blue eyes were dulled with pain and sunken in dark circles and there was not a hint of pink in the cheeks. He was leaning heavily in to the pillows supporting him and Bilbo could hardly bear to think of the pain the child had suffered. To lose both his parents and then this, all within a month. And Saradoc had told him that Frodo had not cried once. Bilbo was inclined to agree with Esmeralda that Frodo may have fared better if he had. There was altogether too much hurt locked behind those blue eyes. If he would just let some of it go they could help him to bear it. 

Frodo could feel his intense scrutiny but tried to ignore it, choosing to concentrate instead on his breakfast.

Within the hour Dr Bolger called and pronounced him well enough to travel, as long as he was wrapped warmly (even though it was summer) and the wagon bed was well padded. He also left instructions with Esmeralda on how to dose the young traveler if he looked as though the journey was putting him under too much stress. It was a long ride back to Brandy Hall on roads not properly repaired after the unusually heavy spring rains. 

It took two more hours to ready the cart to Aunt Esmeralda’s satisfaction. Nearly every cushion, pillow, quilt and blanket that could be spared from Brandy Halls’ not insubstantial hoard had been brought. Saradoc and Esmeralda spent a lot of effort getting them arranged to protect and support their precious cargo and only when they were fully satisfied did they send for Frodo. Bilbo had the responsibility of delivering their charge safely to his new nest. With Daisy Fallows help he wrapped his nephew in blankets and lifted him tenderly from the bed. Frodo hissed in pain a couple of times but was soon resting comfortably in Bilbo’s strong arms. 

With a thank you to Mr and Mrs Fallows he was carried through the house to the yard, where the cart was waiting. Bilbo handed him over to Saradoc and he and Esmeralda settled the lad among the pillows and quilts. Then Bilbo joined Esmeralda in the back of the cart with Frodo and Saradoc went to sit with their driver, Ned.

Amidst a chorus of thank you’s and goodbyes the cart pulled slowly out of the farmyard and into the lane. It was dusk by the time the cart pulled into the courtyard of Brandy Hall but Frodo was no longer aware of his surroundings. Bilbo and Esmeralda had tried to keep the sun out of his face and fanned cool air at him. And Ned and Saradoc had tried to avoid most of the ruts and holes in the road, but within half an hour their precious cargo was gasping with pain every time they hit even the slightest bump, his arm in its sling jolting against his ribs, despite a cushion being slipped between. 

By the end of the first hour Bilbo had called a halt and Aunt Esmeralda had given Frodo three spoonfuls of the medicine Dr Bolger had left. They waited a little while, continuing only when Bilbo was convinced that his nephew was deeply asleep. After that they had traveled as quickly as they dared, aware that the doctor had instructed that no more medicine could be given to the child until the next evening and worried that he would awaken before they got to the Hall.

By the time Frodo stirred again he was in his own bed and it was well into the small hours of the morning. Esmeralda gave him some camomile tea and he settled back to sleep almost immediately. It was nearly lunch time when he woke again. 

Over the next couple of weeks his health improved steadily. His emotional state and his appetite still worried all those who loved him, however. He progressed from sitting in a chair in his room to sitting outside and then from short walks around the garden to longer walks, always accompanied by an adult. He still did not eat as well as he should and often he would awaken with a loud cry from dreams that left him drenched in sweet. He would accept no comfort at these times, choosing instead, to turn over and lie wakeful until morning.


	7. Chapter 7

Bilbo remained throughout his nephews’ convalescence. It was only he who seemed to be able to coax the boy into eating when he was having a bad day or prod him into taking a walk. More often than not it was Bilbo who walked with him, keeping up a steady flow of chatter that his nephew did not necessarily have to participate in. Frodo was having a particularly difficult day when he pulled himself out of dark thoughts to find he was strolling with Bilbo down the lane to the Halls’ cemetery. He could take the visit to the cemetery on good days, when he had the energy to shut down emotions. The previous night had been haunted by dreams, however, and he was very weary. A visit to the cemetery was out of the question. 

He stopped, having to put so much energy into damming his feelings that he had none left to move. It was several steps later that his uncle realised that Frodo was not at his side. Slightly perplexed, Bilbo turned to find him and saw a stone faced boy planted firmly in the lane, his hands clenched and eyes squeezed shut in a pale face. Bilbo had simply intended to go and pay his respects to Primula and Drogo. Frodo had walked this path with him before but shown no distress. He had not, therefore, expected such a strong reaction. Could this be the day that he finally managed to break through the walls the lad had thrown up around himself?

Slowly the older hobbit walked back to his stricken nephew. Frodo did not seem to see or hear him, his eyes now fixed upon the gate at the end of the lane. Placing a gentle hand upon Frodo’s good elbow he began to steer him toward the cemetery gate. The young orphan walked woodenly at his side. Although he doubted that Frodo could hear a word he was saying, so wrapped in his own pain was the child, Bilbo kept talking. He endeavoured to keep his voice soothing and low, fearful that the child would bolt at any sudden move or sound. Step by step they drew closer, until suddenly they were through the gate and he was leading a silent Frodo to the corner where two mounds showed slightly greener than the grass surrounding them.

Weeks of fear, pain and anger were dammed in Frodo’s head. NO, NO, No, No, no, no, no, no, no, no. He would not let the tears out. He should not and could not let them out. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. The words became a litany in his head. Frodo tried to open his mouth to let the words escape but his jaw was clenched tight. 

The two mounds filled his eyes, accusingly and he lacked the will to turn away. They were the mounds of his parents’ graves. The place where his Mama and Papa lay. They were both dead and he must not cry. Papa had told him that grown hobbits did not cry. He clenched his teeth and swallowed back the sobs that crowded up for release from his throat. 

Frodo tried to force his legs to turn, to run away, but they did not seem to be under his control. In fact, he felt that if he did try to walk they would probably betray him and fold, dropping him to the floor. In desperation, he looked to Bilbo. His uncle would surely know that Frodo wanted to leave and would help. Perhaps he would sweep him up in his strong arms and carry him back to his quiet room at Brandy Hall. Frodo turned eyes that were burning with unshed tears to his uncle’s face and stared in shock at what he found there.

Bilbo watched in agony as pain, fear, anger and a dozen other emotions chased across the child’s’ face. His own tears fell, unacknowledged, as he waited with breath held. Then those blue eyes turned to him in supplication and one expression settled firmly on Frodo’s face. Surprise. Bilbo felt more tears slide down his cheeks as he tried desperately to understand what to do to help the child. To his amazement Frodo’s lips parted and a small, accusing voice fell into the silence. 

“Grown hobbits don’t cry.”

The soft words landed with a loud clang in Bilbo’s mind and suddenly all became clear. He knelt down, so that his own eyes were level with those pleading blue ones and he did not try to stop the tears that now ran hot and fast down his own face. He cleared a throat grown thick with sorrow. 

“Oh, Frodo, my lad. Whoever was it told you that?” 

Frodo was having difficulty finding his voice. “Papa,” came the quiet response. 

Bilbo drew breath and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, silently berating Drogo for trying to make his child grow up too fast. “All grown hobbits cry, when there is good reason, Frodo. And goodness knows you have many reasons. It’s alright to cry. Your Papa won’t think less of you.” 

Bilbo watched his nephew waver and then the dam broke. Frodo opened his mouth and a thin wail slipped out, growing in intensity as he pulled his head back, until Bilbo thought that his eardrums would burst. Then the child drew breath and hot salt tears sprang from wells that had been covered too long. 

He threw himself at his uncle, wrapping his good arm so tightly around Bilbo’s neck that for a moment the older hobbit thought he would choke. His uncle pulled the little one into his arms and held him in his lap as Frodo’s legs gave way. Bilbo’s own tears continued to flow in response as he held Frodo tight and rocked the little body, now wracked by sobs so long held back. 

They clung together like that, before the graves for a long time, until Frodo’s sobs had subsided to dry hitches and there were no tears left in either of them. Bilbo handed the little hobbit a hanky. “Blow your nose, now, Frodo my lad.” 

Frodo complied and raised a hot and tear stained face to his uncle. 

Bilbo smiled gently. “There. Shall we say goodbye to your Mama and Papa now? And then we can go home.” 

Frodo nodded and allowed himself to be helped up. The two stood, wrapped in their own thoughts in front of the, as yet unmarked, graves. Bilbo had ordered two nice markers from the stone mason but they could not be set up until the earth had settled a few weeks longer. He sighed as he thought of Drogos’ words, probably said so lightly to his son, that had caused such pain.

Frodo remembered the way his Mama’s hair, the colour of autumn chestnuts, glinted copper in the sunlight and he remembered his Papa’s quiet voice, telling him stories of dwarves as they strolled down the lane on the way home for supper.

When Bilbo and Frodo arrived back at Brandy Hall, still red eyed, Esmeralda suspected that something had changed. Bilbo nodded, ever so slightly and she felt her own tears welling up in relief as she ducked quickly out of the room, ostensibly to prepare lunch. Frodo climbed into Bilbo’s lap and his uncle held him close; both of them silent but content to be so. Frodo was asleep by the time Esmeralda returned with lunch but they did not bother to wake him.

-0-

Looking back, Frodo felt so privileged to have known Bilbo. He hoped that some day, when this fearful journey was over, he would get to see him again and tell him, once more, just how much he loved him. He wished he could be sitting comfortably with him now, smoking a pipe in front of the fireplace in Bag End, instead of starting out on this terrifying journey.

Frodo closed his eyes and fell into an uneasy sleep; haunted by memories of the forest and dark riders.

THE END

 

Eventually he fell into a vague dream, in which he seemed to be looking out of a high window over a dark sea of tangled trees. Down below among the roots there was the sound of creatures crawling and snuffling. He felt sure they would smell him out sooner or later.

A Conspiracy Unmasked-The Fellowship of the Ring- JRR Tolkien


End file.
